Lamentations of a White Demon
by semtester
Summary: The end from the view of Vicious. Some swearing


**Disclaimer:** All characters appearing in _Cowboy Bebop_ are the copyright of Sunrise, Inc. No infringement of these copyrights is intended, and the following story is not authorized by the copyright holder. 

* * *

Lamentations of a White Demon

* * *

Only God says "jump"  
So I say "in good time"  
Cause if He ever saw it  
It was through these eyes of mine  
And if He ever suffered  
It was me who did his crying

_"Tomorrow, Wendy"_  
Written by Andy Prieboy; sung by Concrete Blonde

* * *

We are almost dead. Not quite there, but almost. 

I am unsurprised at the way we are delaying the inevitable as you and I never did things efficiently. This lingering at the gate of oblivion does not hurt as I do not feel the physical wounds that afflict me and somehow, I know that you are no different than I. Most people would be cold already, their lifeless expressions contorted and sealed for the posterity of worms and other insects to gaze upon. 

Not you nor I. We draw it out as if we think someone is still interested in our drama. A vanity that neither of us ever rid ourselves of. 

I admit to that moment of fatuousness as I know that no one cares if I am gone or if I had lived. It is of no consequence to anyone as I touched few except to signal their departure. 

You were supposed to be different from I. You were destined for something greater than this plebian exit that you deigned upon yourself. As we lay dying, together yet separate, in this overdone room and with the rubble of our decayed past enshrouding us, I cannot help but think you a fool. 

You should not have come back. Why did you ignore my warnings? Why did you continue to return from a death that was surely your chance at salvation? Why did you always, ALWAYS have to come back? Didn't I tell you that I was the only one who could keep you alive and the only one who could kill you? Why didn't you relize that I caused the latter to ensure the former? 

Why did I always try to call you back? And why did you listen? 

You were never supposed to listen. You never did when we were kids, why did you suddenly start paying attention when it was all for show. _They_ wanted you back and so I did what I was told. They wanted you within the fold again and I would kill you each time to keep you being brought back. 

You never thought of it that way, did you? Short-sighted you are. Always were. Did you ever wonder why I had never gone looking for you in earnest? If I hated you so obsessively, I could have found you with scant effort on my part. When I did find you, did you ever wonder why I did not finish you off when I had the opportunity instead of letting you walk away barely alive? 

And if you had truly bled away the blood that flowed through both of us, why did those bonds of blood always bring you back? 

I would curse you for your obstinacy, but I would have choked on that wasted effort. You were always a masochist as well as a fool and a dreamer and an expert at denial. 

Except for the masochism, I never had the luxury of possessing those qualities that were your hallmarks. What good would it have been to deny what I was? Not _who_, but _what_. I was never a person. I was a thing, an instrument of death. I never pretended to be different. They said I was death and it was what I became and for death, there is no dream, no room to fool, no need to deny. It exists at the point where the shades of color drains from the psyche and fades slowly into a watery black. Death has no reason to believe or justify its attendance because it is the only thing we are guaranteed of. As such, this personification of death never had to find a belief or reason to hold onto; therefore, I will die as I had lived...A shadow. 

You were never an instrument of death. We all knew that and I envied you for it. 

Remember how we met? I was being beaten for stealing an apple from a cart. I didn't even like apples, but I was hungry and it was the easiest thing to grab. Yet on that day, I was a bit slow and the storekeep was a bit fast. He'd grabbed me by the neck using his nails to keep me in his small hand's grip. His wife had gotten a wooden stick that had thin leather strips on it and started to hit me anywhere she could find. You came by and threw rocks at them at such a rapid rate that they let me go. Idiotically, they chased after you but you were too fast and I got away. 

You found me later and took me to Annie's store to get me medicine for my wounds. You decided that I needed a friend. We were eleven at the time, but it was the purest time of my life, even if I did feel like a pet at odd moments. 

I let those moments go because as we ran through the streets wild, chased by shopkeepers for stealing or patrons for pickpocketing, we were together and I knew that you were special. I was hoping that I could be special too. 

In those days, when I could sleep and a dream chanced upon me, my dream would tell me the truth. I was not like you and never would be. You were always the one who could talk yourself out of punishment with a smile and joke. Even if you felt the lash of punishment, you were able to control the pain that was dispensed. 

I was not so lucky, but I taught myself to not complain long ago. Life is impartial when it chooses favorites. I had no promises that life would be made easy and it was not. My body bears the uneasy scars of our childhood from my hairline to my toes. There is not one part of me that does not invite a question if someone were to chance a glance upon me. Maybe I deserved it. I was sullen and combative where you offered a grin even if you did not offer trust. I was a darkness amongst people while you hid your feelings in a mask of lightness. Where I struggled, you thrived. I could run, but you could fly. 

I was loved by no one, but you were loved by everyone. 

Including me. 

That never changed, no matter what you may presume. That truth pains me but I do not duck from it as all truth has an element of pain. Like the others who held you as special, I was relegated to a corner of your life and then dismissed when you decided that I was part of a world you no longer wanted. I understood why, but it did not exempt me from the sting of the rejection. 

Still, I never learned how to not miss you. You were my adversary, my rival, my colleague, my comrade. I missed you because you were once my friend when I had none. 

I am aware that you think I hated you because of Julia. Do not feel chagrin as I tell you that you were in error. Everyone assumed that our enmity began because of Julia. In a way, they were right, but not in how they thought. The woman called Julia was my minor gadfly, but not my undoing where you are concerned. 

Think about this for a moment and then tell me, Spike Spiegel, before I go to Hell and you to Heaven, did you really think that I would be angry at you over a mere girlfriend? 

Certainly, Julia was a beautiful and intelligent woman, but was she unique in that respect? Was she singular amongst all humankind? What was it about her that made you think that I would become so paltry that I would give up our friendship for her? 

I admit to suspect sanity that allowed my colorblind eyes to see red, but I have never acquired an element of such ordinary pettiness. 

The simple truth is that you loved her; but I did not. I would have told you that if you had asked, but for some reason, you never did and she never told you that truth. I know that she did not. Instead, we left it for reasons that suited us and let the misunderstanding fester at a wound that should not have existed. 

It was unexpected by you that she would care for me even as she began to need you. That had never happened before. Did you know that Julia loved me? She did, but I hope that you do not hold it against her. I concede that it is quite likely that she loved you more. To think otherwise would supplant our entire history. Yet, it remains that she loved me too. I assure you, it was a minor flaw of hers and one that she could have gotten over if she had tried, but she did not. Instead, she held on to me and to you and destroyed us both. 

_That_ is why I am angry at Julia. 

But as for you, I am angry because as long as you had known me, you did not believe in me when it counted. I was your comrade, your friend, your brother-in-arms. _You_ turned on _me_ when you decided to "die" for Julia and you left the mess in my hands. 

How do you think I felt when I was given the orders to kill you? Why do you think I sent Julia to kill you and not done the deed myself? I knew that she would never be able to do it. She was never particularly good at originality. That was her strength. But how did you think I felt to be put in the position to kill the last thing that I knew I cared for even as he wanted to _die_? 

To my last burning days in Hell, I could never adequately explain the dementia your schism created within me. Perhaps I will have to learn to be well-versed in denial after all. 

But whatever your truth was, it is certain that I would have done anything for you, my friend. Sold my life, burned my soul, bartered my heart such as it is, destroyed the only thing that appeared to value me. 

Yes, I would have brought down the Red Dragon. This snake would have done that for you. Maybe for myself too. You wanted to run from it, but as you can see, you would never have escaped. The only escape would have been to devour it. You could not have done that, but I could. I was close to succeeding. That is the thing about madness based in reality. A sane madman has little concept of the impossible and no loyalties to hold him back. 

Had you but waited, you would have had everything. Freedom and Julia. But no, the two of you had to come back when the fire was its hottest. 

An error on Julia's part and yours as well, but strength was never Julia's forte. Not strength nor originality nor timing. 

Forgive me for my tone of sarcasm, but your ill-advised, secretive penchant for the romantic always screwed us over. It was what got us into the Syndicate in the first place. 

Because you were friends with Annie who was friends with Mao Yenrai and he took a liking to you. They and others told you stories about how the family worked. You wanted a family although you were not quite an orphan as Annie had taken you under her wing. But you wanted care and guidance. They needed a protege. 

I wanted a family too as I had no family, no friends, no place called home, nothing to harbor me except a friend whose _family_ tolerated me because he would not have it otherwise but it did not keep them from considering me strange. 

As we grew, the Syndicate seemed to become our destiny. They became as our family as we envisioned, but as you became their Jacob, I became their Esau. 

You were the child they doted on; the one with the natural grace, the sharp wit, the laughing smile and those warm colored eyes that made one bend to your will with little effort. 

I was the one who practiced until my body ached so that it would appear graceful; a smile upon my mouth was rare and even then, it appeared as a tightlipped frown; my voice was harsh, lacking in warmth; my eyes were the color of dirty, melting snow. My blood was ice as far as they were concerned. I had no heart, no life, no meaning. I was supposed to die early under the weight of my nothingness. 

Even in the midst of my jealousy so bone-deep that sometimes I did not know how I could stand straight without it, I knew that you were the center of which the hope was pinned. You would be the one to help them rise above the rotting carcass that was the Red Dragon Syndicate and become more. Yet, no matter how gloriously credible the Red Dragon wanted to be, the truth was that at its heart was destruction and we were its arm and even a dreamer like you figured that out. 

I hate the word _ironic_ and yet there is no other way to describe it: It is _ironic_ that I was the one who remained, the one they didn't want, and who tried to allow the beast to become part of me while you, their annointed one, escaped in an effort to deny the beast. 

Did the exorcism work any better for you than the fusion worked for me? 

I thought not. 

Maybe nothing was ever what it seemed. You died to leave and I died to stay. Yet, I would have brought down this house of cards. I wanted to and I was close. So very close. 

Have I confused you? Good, because you were always too arrogant for anyone's good, most of all your own. You are wondering how I can say all this after everything I have done that screamed of hate. 

Did I hate you? I did more than hate you. I despised and damned you even as I pleaded for my comfortable insanity to crush my soul so that I would not feel the emptiness that existed within. 

If you do not believe me, I do not blame you. 

You might ask, Why? More likely, you might snicker disbelievingly at me as you were wont to do, but all I can say is that a friend is rare. In all of my bleak, barren life, your friendship was a gift that meant something. 

For such a gifted being, you never learned that. Friends came too easily to you that you had come to think of them as interchangable. They are not. 

From you, I modeled how to discard friends. The war on Titan was where I practiced. I did it well although not quite as well as you. Remember Gren? He cared for me. No, not in _that_ way. Well, maybe a fraction, but even if he did, he would never have told me unless I indicated to him that it was welcome. He was like that. A gentle man and an honest soul. His goodness was acid to my already brittle senses so I held back and used him as befitting to me. 

Do I regret what I did to him? I don't know. Perhaps yes, perhaps no. I am not sure. 

As my thoughts form the face of Gren, not as I saw him on Callisto but rather on Titan, it feels almost intrusive to hear a woman's cry. It is like the echo of a siren's call. Reflexively, I slowly turn my head toward the sound. 

It is a woman, dressed in a worn light colored shorts and jacket. She is followed by a tall, massive man with a balding head but thick tufts of dark hair around the sides and jawline. As they fearlessly enter this darkened death pit, I see their eyes lock on your form. 

I know who they are, by face and name. I know all that is important about them. 

Friends they are to you, although knowing you, you would never have called them that. You would have called them by their names and that would be that. You became like that. A good heart but it suffered from bouts of sabotage and selfishness. 

They fascinate me, these two people that you kept company with and I strain to study them with my flawed sense of vision. It probably does not matter and you probably would not care, but I have to admit that for some reason I am able to discern that the woman's eyes are green, a dark emerald green that only my imagination could conjure. I do not even know for sure what green looks like but her eyes are like nothing I've seen before. 

It mildly disturbed me that I noted such a thing the first time I was in her presence. It was in the muted hall of the opera house as she sat next to your dead mentor and those eyes shimmered with a brilliant, trembling terror and the deep hue penetrated even my ignorant, colorless sight. 

She feared me then and as she cautiously raises those large eyes to view where I lie, I can see that she fears me still even though she thinks me dead. 

Smart girl, if a bit reckless. 

Ms. Valentine is aptly name as she has a gamine face, delicate, piquant. She will continue to be a beauty long into her old age and she will live to an old age. She is that type of woman. Life matters to her no matter how closely she takes a stroll near death. 

I see those saucer-like eyes blink once, then twice to discern movement from me. I hold still as I am afraid that any rustle from the bloodsoaked body will cause her to vanish and I do not want her to that just yet. 

She stares a moment longer and when she is finally satisfied, a slight shudder runs through her body and she shakes her head as her attention returns to you. 

There is a long pause as she studies your inert body and then a single sob is released, followed by a long breath before she launches into a low heated, curse-filled diatribe as she drops to her knees next to you. "You goddamned jackass. You dimwitted, lunkhead, selfish prick," she bites out, her voice filled with a hurt that she seems disgusted by. 

Whatever else she is feeling, I know this for a certainty: She's got your number. I would smile if I had the strength as she continues to stutter over epithets to call you. I had never heard anyone call you any of those names with quite so much verve in the time that we've known each other, but I find myself agreeing with the fairy girl. She is grumbling at you, accusing you of being a coward for not trying to live. 

I defy you to say she is in error. 

"You think you are the first fuck-up to have lost," she is snarling as if the sound is being driven from the bottom of her stomach. "You really think you are so goddamned special that no one has ever felt pain that makes you feel like your lungs are being shredded. You selfish, fucking bastard!" It is telling that for all her anger, she does not pound on your body. Instead, she holds her hands over you as she wants to touch you but dares not. 

I like that girl. I should not as she is truly the most dangerous sort of woman. She neither knows her allure nor her limitations. Once she figures both out and how to control her attributes, she'll be a force of nature, but for now, she is like a colt still learning to stand, much less run and that awkwardness of her body is even more evident as she struggles against being supremely, futilely pissed off at you. 

There is something very humorous at the way she is trying to be respectful when she is not sure of how to do it. Maybe it is a good thing that _I_ am dying. This humor hurts. It makes me feel too human. 

I feel suddenly tired so I turn my eyes on the man, big and rock solid. He is different from the woman. While her mouth has yet to stop moving, he has yet to say anything. He is calm with his large hands on the woman's slim shoulders. By his very posture, anyone could see that he is an honorable, proud person. A rarity in this universe, but sources once told me that Jet Black is of the rare kind. 

A former policeman with the ISSP. I've heard he was one of the best. Do you know if he was one of the best, Spike? How much of this giant did you know? Or were you too busy living with three-quarters of your body in a dream that the rest of you did not try to find out? 

He is trying to soothe Faye's temper and he is succeeding by a margin as her scathing words are lessening. She continues to talk to you, but her tone is changing to pleas. In a measured voice, he is mildly ordering her, "Don't speak ill of the dead, Faye. It is not right." He sounds so reasonable but his expression is partially frozen in a grimace, his lips pulled back and his teeth showing. It is obvious that he is hoping that if he grits his teeth long enough, the pain will grind itself away before it is truly felt. 

"This is Spike, Jet," she responds, looking at your body as if she expects you to wake up. "He'd ridicule at me if I went sweet on him." 

"He's not here, Faye." 

She shakes her head and leans forward. "No, he can't be dead. This jerk can't die yet." 

The hands, one real, one metallic, convulse on her shoulders. "Yes," he contradicts her as he kneels next to her. A hand reaches out and I can see him brush away an unruly lock from your ear. "He can. He wanted to." 

"That's bullshit and I've seen enough BS to know it." 

"He wanted to die if there was no Julia." 

Faye snorted loudly. "Give me a fuckin' break!" Agitated, she stands up and moves away from you. She shivers as she surveys the room and the pungent smell of blood and ash causes her to sneeze. The action causes something to happen within her and she begins to cry. "It's not right, Jet," she moans softly. "It is just not right. If he had to die, he should have died for something instead of nothing." 

Jet nods at her words as he straightens your collar as if preparing you for your coffin. He watches you but listens to her. "God, I would do anything to have him not die," she prays and sniffles. "Just to have him have a chance at anything, to change his dream and make it real." 

The big man chuckles at her in a strained way. "I think I'm about to gag now," he tells her jokingly and she huffs at him in mild affrontery. 

"I _would_ do anything." 

"Anything?" He is skeptical as am I. For all her fire, she has a thread of wariness that is unmistakable. 

She thinks about it. "Almost anything." 

A dry laugh that is sincere emerges from his wide mouth and relaxes him for the first time. "Almost nothing you mean." 

"No," she replies, bristling. She makes a swipe at her now watery nose, her eyes are puffy. "I would make a vow to God..." 

"You'd be a nun to give Spike a chance at life?" he interjects, his hands still working on your body, examining you as if he is trying to find something. 

"Well, maybe." A thick brow rises and she shakes her head immediately at the implied query. "Maybe that would be too much." She thinks for a moment and then those eyes brighten just a little. "I'd make a promise to be less selfish, more giving." 

He still does not buy it, but he humors her anyway. "And what else?" 

"I'd make a point to go to church every Sunday." 

"Why not every day?" 

"God doesn't want me to set myself up for failure." 

"How do you know?" 

"I don't." 

"Well, at least you're getting better at honesty." 

His last statement makes her laugh for a brief moment. Too brief. The eyes fill up again and she begins to press her fists against her eyes in an effort to make the tears stop. "I would promise God those things. I'd do it. I'd be a better person, go to church, be nicer to dogs, clean up after myself--" 

"Faye, he's alive." 

"--do the dishes, pay off my debt, stop gambling--" 

"He's alive, Faye." 

"--not be so shallow, read a book once a year, learn to cook food that requires heat,--" 

"FAYE, HE'S NOT DEAD YET!" 

The words are roared at her and it is the volume of sound that makes her stop her rambling. Stunned, she stares at him. "Don't yell at me unless you are telling me the truth." 

Jet's real hand has two fingers pressed against the pulse at your throat. "How loud do you want me to yell when I say he's got a pulse?" he questions her. 

In a millisecond, she is kneeling next to you once more. She is speechless and Jet prompts her, "Talk to him. When he hears your yapping, his pulse seems to be stronger." 

"It is only because he wants to insult me," she surmises sarcastically. 

"That's it, Faye," Jet advises. "Keep it up." 

She peruses your broken body with a new air of permissive confidence. "I can't believe it," she yelps in triumph. "I've got free rein of the floor. I can talk and you can't say anything and right now, you can't walk away. You didn't hear what I promised to God, did you? Well, believe or not, I'm gonna hold myself to those promises...um, the good ones anyway. Stop smirking at me. I know you don't believe me, but I can do it. You watch me. The being nice to a dog should be a snap as long as we don't get another dog on the Bebop. No, wait...Ein might be coming back. All right, it will test me. Avoiding being shallow...uh...a long-term project, but I can learn to cook fairly quick. I think." 

As Faye Valentine rambled on and did her best to irritate you, Jet Black worked to bandage you as best as he could under the circumstances. He spoke to you too. He reminded you about VT's cat liking you so you couldn't say that you didn't like cats. Must be an inside joke. He said something about Ed needing to be picked up, but he kind of wanted to make her wait a little to teach her a lesson about going off without telling anyone or saying goodbye. Once again, an private joke that I do not understand but wish that I did. 

As I watch them, I find myself disgusted with you. How could you not value these people? I have never understood that about you. You were so careless with your friends. Mao, Annie, Lin...me. And why? 

Yes, it is a ludicrous and redundant question as the answer is for all to see. 

Julia. 

Have I mentioned that you were a fool? 

If you questioned whether your life was just a dream, then surely I questioned whether my life would ever contain a dream. Instead of seeing the dream, you should have been embracing the reality. 

But then again, maybe you are not such a fool after all. You can hear the woman with the shining green eyes spout promises to God that she cannot hardly keep while you are ministered by a friend who will never willingly let you down. Maybe, just maybe, you will get it after all. 

Once he is satisfied with his work, Jet tells Faye, "I'll take him now. I know someone who can help. You get the Swordfish back to the Bebop." She acknowledges his words, a worried smile flitting across her mouth. As he lifts you, he grimaces slightly as he warns his companion, "He may not make it, Faye. Don't get your hopes too high." 

She tries to nod but fails. "I can't think like that. He's...he's..." 

"He's Spike," Jet says as she fumbles over her words. They know you too well, old friend. 

"Yeah, he's Spike," she echoes as she brushes the hair off your forehead. Jet's back is to me and she is facing me. At that moment, she looks at me. 

My eyes are open and I blink. I hear the gasp and I realize that it has come from me. Not her. I hope that she did not hear it. I want to be dead to them because if she knows that I am alive, it will be a too fitting punishment to be left behind. 

But she knows that I am not yet dead as her gaze narrows on me. "Jet," she says, no surprise in her voice. "Vicious." 

The announcement causes the man's back to straighten but he does not turn around. "So?" he retorts. 

There is a significant pause between them before Faye speaks. Her voice is different from before. "We can't leave him," she tells him, her eyes on me. "Let him die later if that is what is to be, but I can't leave him here." She turns her attention upward to Jet and then to you. "Call me superstitious, but I feel like if I leave him here and he dies, then Spike will too. I can't take that chance. Can you?" 

I can feel the angry vibrations emanating from Jet Black, but eventually, he turns with you in his massive arms. The dark eyes turn to slits as he throws an accusing glare at me. "If he is alive, then it is proof that God has a wicked sense of humor." 

With that shot, he began to move away. "Jet?" Faye calls to him. 

He does not turn around but answers. "I'll come back. I don't like this, but maybe you are right." He snorts and growls, "You've got a crappy sense of timing in that you would pick a moment like this to be right and grow a conscience." 

The insult misses it mark completely because Faye smiles. She doesn't say thank you and he does not expect one. 

Once he is gone, it is just me and Faye Valentine. I know Jet will be back for me. He is one that believes in honor in its most basic level. But for now, it is she and I. 

She does not move toward me and her expression is a mix of trepidation and morbid curiosity. Her voice carries easily as it is her goal. "I am only doing this for Spike," she warns me. "You and he...I don't know what it is, but you two..." The words trail off as she searches for the right words to explain. In a rush, she begins again, "You two were friends once. I know that much and I don't believe for one second that this was all because of a woman. It was about a lot more than that. I don't know what all of it was and maybe Spike will never tell me...in fact, I'm sure he won't. He won't even tell me his favorite color. But know this, Vicious, if you ever--" She stopped on a choked breath. "If he ever--" Another pause. "Please don't hurt him," she finally whispers to me, the sound almost inaudible. But although my sight is impaired, my ears are not and I can even hear the sound of her hair brushing against her collar. "Only you can kill him," she mouths to me. "Only you can save him." 

Odd and ironic, how much this woman knows after such a short time. Our eyes meet and the plea is clear in those depths. "Please do not die." 

I am not sure if she says the words for me or for you, but at this singular moment, I do not care. I will claim them for me and me alone. 

When God seemed to call me, I always brushed the moment off. What would God want with a demon like me? But the reality is that I never wanted to die. I just did not know how to live. 

Perhaps I can learn. On another tomorrow, I can die, but on this night, I am not going to die. The resolution brings a strange feeling to my lips and I do not realize that I am smiling until I see a hesitant smile come from her and I glimpse of a shimmer of hope. It is a slim chance, but that is better odds than none. 

So it seems that we are almost alive, my old friend. Not quite there, but almost. 

* * *

**Author's Note:** This story was written for completely selfish reasons. It is a character study that has been bugging my brain for awhile. While I love this blasted show, if there was anything that bothered me about it, besides the archetype of perfection that was the phantasm Julia and then Spike kicking the proverbial...well...you know..., it was that I did not get enough of Vicious. I learned way more than I wanted to about Julia, but not nearly enough about Vicious. Why does he and Spike really hate each other? Why does Vicious seem to hate his own Order, his own underlings, his very being? Why does he do the things he does? This fan never knew and wanted to and usually I hate angst yet he had angst in spades and I wanted to know why. For the most part, the reasons for his actions are inferred and so he was open for re-interpretation and that is one thing that is perfect for fanfiction to do. This was my opportunity to re-interpret the white demon that is Vicious. The events are seen from his PoV and as such, some events will be slightly different as it is seen from his perception and he'll neatly ignore his own complicity. But hey, don't we all do that? ~Puaena 


End file.
